


There's Still Time

by toastforone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoptive Parent Dean Winchester, Alcohol, Bad Parent John Winchester, Blood mentioned, Family Issues, Father Figures, Gen, Gun Violence, Mary Winchester Feels, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Character Death(s), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Reflection, Solo Hunter Dean Winchester, Wakes & Funerals, bagpipes, yes dean winchester is a smoker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29262363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastforone/pseuds/toastforone
Summary: Dean gets called out to investigate a haunted hotel, when things go wrong dean blames himself but the people around him don't seem to hate him for it. He meets an old friend and maybe some personal development. (headcanon of deans second brush with the bagpipes)theres a lot of original characters in this, and one from a previous work on this account (in another life, son). pls enjoy!
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Original Character(s), Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 4





	There's Still Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [In Another Life, Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29191200) by [toastforone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastforone/pseuds/toastforone). 



Dean had not intended to stay in Maryland any longer than he needed to. This hunt had already taken twice as long as it should have, and his trip was not over yet. These days he tried to stay put. He tried a lot of things: Gardening. Running. Tea. Anything that felt like it could be part of a normal life. That’s probably why he said yes to attending the funeral.

\--

The call came from Garth of course, (“Possible ghost haunting at an abandoned inn out east” “How far east, Garth”), but he could never say no to the son of a bitch. Don’t get him wrong, the prospect of getting back to the open road, the solitude, it was enticing. It had been months since Dean had been on a trip with Sam being sick from the trials and a simple solo hunt seemed just the ticket. What he did not find so appealing was the 17 hours it took him to drive to Grantsville.

The locals were helpful, if unassuming, and as usual all too compliant with his out-of-date FBI badge. Dean hit the usual round of establishments to conduct interviews, from the intel he gathered it seemed like some ghost just messing with the electrics at a place called The Tudor. It would be nice for a change to sort out a case before there was a casualty.  
‘Talk first, stab later’ and all that, Dean would much rather there be no stabbing at all just once.

\--

On his second day in Grantsville, one young local Dean spoke to was eager to assist ‘Agent Callahan’ on his case. The kid bounded up to Dean’s motel room, carrying a manila folder with ‘calculus’ crossed out on the front.

“Hey Agent, Agent Callahan was it? My name’s Alex MacLennan. I mean, but, you can call me Al. Um, anyways I know you’re here to investigate The Tudor and I thought I could help you. I mean, not that you’re not a professional or whatever, I was just looking into the building and found some things about the previous owner, Greer Parsons, and well. I promise I’m not trying to waste your time, sir, I just thought well maybe… Maybe it’s not a person. I think... it could be a ghost, Greer’s ghost haunting the place?”

Al could have been no older than 20, his youthful enthusiasm would have been annoying if Dean didn’t find his rambling so endearing. And he could use a hand with the research side of things without Sam here.

\--

Together, Dean and Al went to check out the abandoned building late that afternoon. The sky was a fiery orange, magnificent and foreboding, it sent a shiver through Dean’s shoulders. He double checked his pockets out of habit for his gun, salt, and lighter.

“Okay buddy,” Dean said. “We’re on the look-out for anything that this Greer might be using to stay tied to this place.”

“What do we do once we find it?” Al asked.

“Salt it and burn it”.

After a moment of serious consideration, Al nodded, satisfied with this solution. Dean couldn’t help but grin a little. His evening stretched out ahead of him: find this ghost, pat this kid on the back, take-out in his motel room with some crappy movie, head back home early tomorrow.

\--

After an hour or so of looking for Greer’s grounding object, they stumbled on a box with “G. P.” engraved in gold lettering, and a silver ring band inside.

“This’ll be it,” Dean said. “Let’s go burn the sucker.”

They reached the roof of the inn just time to watch the final rays of the day disappear. Dean could see all of Grantsville from here: the fields, a river, the small town strip below. The air smelled clean and felt good in his lungs.

“So, kid, tell me. How’d you figure out there was a ghost here anyway?” Dean asked.

“I’m a criminology major. I was doing a bit of research into some cold cases we were studying in class and I came across some message boards where people were talking about cases like this one. Davenport, Moyamensing, Paterson. There was a whole bunch of ‘em. So, I kept reading. And when I heard about all the weird things happening here, I figured I’d check it out myself. And then I saw you asking people about this place yesterday at the diner, and well, uh, yeah.”

Dean recognised a couple of the town names. “Damn.” He gave Al a moment of impressed silence. “So, you go to school around here? Didn’t realise there was a college in town.”

“I’m actually a sophomore at Shenandoah University in Virginia. I’m just up for the weekend to visit my moms. So, does the FBI really know about ghosts? Like they’re actually for real?”

Dean laughed. “Oh yeah, there’s more to it than just ghosts, kid.”

“Really? Like what?”

Before Dean could answer, the sound of glass smashing interrupted. Dean looked at Al and nodded towards the door. “Quick”.

They moved swiftly and quietly down the stairs, when they reached the bottom Dean held his arm out in front of Al and laid down his game plan. “Okay so what’s gonna happen is you stay put. Hold the jewellery box while I deal with this son a bitch and get us enough time to set this thing on fire.”

Dean headed down the hallway, listening carefully for the ghost’s next move. Sure enough, a slam could be heard further down the hall. He opened the nearest door, thank god there was a fireplace with an iron poker next to it for him to take. Dean made a mental note to come more prepared for his next ghost hunt. Back down the hall, he followed the sounds of Greer’s ghost until he reached room 403. He paused before opening the door, throwing one last smile back down the hall at Al.

Inside the room was a bed frame, and some more dusty, decrepit furniture. The light from Dean’s torch illuminated the tragic, peeling wallpaper. Stepping carefully further into the room, Dean’s heart rate picked up. He heard a creak and before he can turn to face the noise a figure hurtled towards him, throwing him hard into a chest of drawers that shattered under him. Dean reached for the iron rod lying next to him, and masterfully swung around to plunge the rod straight into the ghost’s shoulder.

Except the ghost didn’t disappear. It yelled out in agony. Dean blinked.

The ghost, no, the thing, pulled the rod from its shoulder, blood seeping from the open wound. It punched Dean in the face. Instinctively, Dean hit back and slammed it against the window. The moonlight shone through the glass, and Dean realised this was not a ghost or some creature. It was a man. A human.

Dean hands shook as he gripped the front of the man’s bloodied shirt, pinning him against the window. The man’s scowl turned to a bloodied smile. The moonlight added a sinister glow to his teeth that made Dean’s stomach flip. Cautiously, he looked down and saw a Ruger in the man’s hands pointed directly at his chest. Dean let go and stumbled backwards.

“Hey buddy, you don’t wanna do that. I’m with the FBI, look, I’m just gonna reach for my badge, okay?”, Dean lied as he reached slowly for the gun in his own pocket.

That’s when it all slowed down. Dean’s hand closed around his gun. The man’s face hardened, arm outstretched, determined to shoot. Dean drew his weapon. A shot fired. Not from Dean’s gun. Ears ringing. A groan. No bullets in his own body. Adrenaline and confusion pulsed through Dean. The man collapsed, Ruger still in hand, smoking. A splutter. He turned. In the doorway was Al. Al, wide-eyed and bleeding.

Time started moving again.

Dean rushed toward the kid as he collapsed with his hand clutching the gunshot wound. Dean caught him before he hit the ground.

“I’m sorry, I heard the crash. I wanted to make sure – “

“Sh, Al, it’s okay. It’s gonna be- I’ll make sure you’re okay”.

Dean leaned Al against the wall and pressed his own hand down hard over the wound. He pulled out his phone, fumbling with the keys as he dialled 911. “140 Main Street, Grantsville. Gunshot wound to the chest. It’s a kid. He’s breathing, barely. We’re in the hallway of the fourth floor. Hurry. Please.”

Dean looked back at Al. His face was pale, his breathing ragged, and there was blood in the corners of his mouth. Al made a sound Dean wished he could forget.

“It’s okay, kid. You’re okay.”

“I-“, Al rasped. “I’m okay”.

He said it so quietly Dean almost couldn’t hear it.

\--

Dean was still doing compressions when the paramedics arrived. He didn’t remember how long it took or how he got downstairs. There was a blanket around his shoulders. He sat on a bench across the road from the inn. The police car flashed its siren lights out front. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Agent Callahan. How are you doing?” the officer looked down at him.

Dean came back to reality. “Um. Yeah. I’m- I’m fine”

“What happened in there? We didn’t realise there was another person up there. The paramedics said you called to report just one casualty.”

“Yeah, there was.” Dean sighed and looked up into the night sky, “He came at me, I came back. He pulled a gun, and I wasn’t fast enough. Shot the kid. I didn’t even know he was there.”

“And why was the FBI investigating an old inn in Grantsville?”, her voice had the same sceptical tone all law enforcement had when the ‘feds’ came to their town.

“That’s classified.”

The officer was clearly unsatisfied with the answer but didn’t press it.

“Well, if you need any more information for your records. Names, perps, coroner’s report, all that jazz, here’s my contact. I’m Sheriff Barnett.”

“Coroner’s report?”

“Yeah. The young man who was shot, he was pronounced dead at the scene. You were there right?”, she looked at him quizzically.

Dean’s heart stopped. “Yeah. Yeah, I was just- It’s been a long day. I-“

“You should get home, Agent. I’ll call you when we have an update.”

\--

Rain hit the corrugated iron roof above Dean. The sound echoed around the walls of the motel room. His phone started to ring on the table beside him. He picked up after the sixth ring.

“Sorry to bother you so late, Agent. It’s Sheriff Barnett again. I just wanted to update you on the case”.

Dean remained silent and Sheriff Barnett took this as approval to keep talking.

“We spoke to the perpetrator, the other man who was there. He’s in hospital, stable condition, and we contacted the victim’s next of kin. The case is pretty much all tied up here, just finishing the filing of the paperwork.”

“Al.” Dean mumbled.

“What?”

“Al. The victim’s name was Al.”

“Yeah… Yeah, Alex MacLennan. We ID-ed him alright, his parents are down here with me now.” A moment’s pause. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Agent?”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why was he there? The guy. Why’d he shoot Al?”

“You feds, always getting us little guys to do your dirty work.” She joked flatly. “Apparently, the guy was some sort of property developer, and the inn was on prime real estate. He was pretty hopped up on pain meds still, but he seemed to think if he made it seem like the place was haunted, he could drive the price down and make a fortune. Could you believe it? Haunted? All for some dingy little place in Grantsville, Maryland. I don’t get these people, Agent.”

Dean felt sick.

“Anyways, he’ll be charged with second-degree murder. We did interview him, so I’ll send you the full transcript in the morning.”

“No that’s okay.”

More dead air. The silence was excruciating, but Dean had nothing to say.

“Goodbye, Agent.”

Dean rolled over and closed his eyes. The rain kept thundering down.

\--

Dean awoke to a timid knock on the door of his motel room. “Agent Callahan?”

His whole body ached.

“Hello?” the voice asked again. Dean wished the visitor would go away, so he could get into his car and drive off without looking back.

Another knock.

Dean sat up, he knew he looked terrible, and probably smelled terrible too, still in yesterday’s clothes. He walked over to the door, inhaling deeply before turning the doorknob. Standing in the doorway were two women. One was tall, with dark skin and a solemn expression; the other was shorter, paler, with kind eyes.

“I’m Joan,” said the shorter woman. “And this is my wife Leanne. We’re Alex’s parents. We w-”. The woman, Joan, inhaled sharply biting her lip. She mustered a determined stare in the direction of Dean’s shoes.

Fucking hell. Dean couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face the Al’s parents. He couldn’t talk to the people whose lives he’d just torn apart. He couldn’t even begin to apologise for fucking up beyond all things reasonable. They had every right to berate him, hate him, hurt him the way he’d done to their family. He would accept it.

“The sheriff told us what you did yesterday and-“, again Joan’s words falter. Dean braces himself.

“We just wanted to thank you for being with Alex. For looking after him. They said you did everything a person could to save him.”

Dean’s mouth hung open, he wasn’t sure what to say. He looked between the women’s faces.

Leanne cleared her throat. Her voice was a little hoarse, but steady. “We wanted to invite you to the funeral. It’s going to be held at Joan’s hometown tomorrow, about an hour’s drive. If you don’t have another case, we’d like you to come, Agent.” Leanne looked him straight in the eye. She seemed sincere.

“Um,” Dean started. “Yeah, yes, of course. Please, call me Dean''. This moment of honesty caught him by surprise. He at least owed them his self, he figured. “Look, Leanne, Joan, I am so sorry about your son. I- I just wish I had done more. He should never have been there in the first pla-“

“Great. We’ll come by tomorrow then at ten.” Joan said, cutting off Dean’s attempt at repentance. She handed him a folded piece of paper from her pocket and nodded at him. With that Joan and Leanne walked away.

It was already late afternoon. Dean hadn’t been able to sleep until well after 4am. He opened the note carefully, his face felt numb. In neat handwritten print, Joan had written a phone number and an address. Below that, it read: “Alex George MacLennan.”

He texted Garth “somethings come up here, need another night or so”

\--

Dean knew people who had died in the field, hell, he knew kids who had. Plural. Death wasn’t a new or even finite concept for him, so then why did Al’s cut him so deep? He sat on the floor, back against the foot of the cheap motel bed.

Everyone he knew who had died, did so for a greater good. At the hands of the supernatural. Al’s death felt so meaningless to Dean. Unnecessary. There wasn’t even an actual ghost for crying out loud. Just some son of a bitch property brother wanting to get a good deal on his next build. Fuck. Why the hell did he bring a kid into this?

Dean’s head fell between his knees. He didn’t remember falling asleep but when he woke his cheeks were still wet.

\--

At 9:30am Dean drove to the address Joan had given him. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to go. Even more than that, Dean couldn’t believe they actually wanted him there. The address turned out to be Leanne and Joan’s home, and at some point, Al’s, he assumed. After an awkward greeting where Dean offered to drive himself to the service and the women politely declining, they set onto the highway.

The drive was quiet. Dean felt like a child sitting in the back seat of the MacLennan’s station wagon, watching droplets of rain race down his window. The three of them stopped at a small diner along the way. Dean ordered a black coffee and a slice of pecan pie. The crust was dry, and the coffee was weak. Joan smiled sadly at Dean over her tea, sympathetic to the gloom of it all: the food, the weather, the occasion. Leanne just looked out the window back at the car. When the check came, she insisted on paying. 

\--

Dean didn’t realise it, but he’d fallen asleep against the car window.

When opened his eyes, Joan was parking the car across the road from a brick church, with the sign “Grove Church. All Welcome!” out front. Dean noticed that it was no longer raining, in fact the sun had come out in full force.

As they stepped out of the car, various family members surrounded Leanne and Joan, embracing them. Dean shook hands with a few of them. They headed towards the church, but Dean hung back for a moment, not wanting to taint this moment for the MacLennans.

\--

The funeral began at midday, Dean sat at the very back of the church. Sunlight streamed in from the large glass windows, resting delicately on the flower-covered coffin under the cross.  
The pastor began with a prayer and hymn. Leanne spoke next. Then Joan. A friend. Al’s grandfather from Scotland. Another friend. Another relative. Everything they said was done with such sincerity and love. How he adored cooking. His obsession with crime TV shows as a child. His kind heart. His terrible attempts at a Scottish accent. His inquisitive mind.

There was grief, yes, and it was deep, but it was not shrouded in melancholy or regret.

It was nothing like the hunter’s funerals he’d attended before. With blood-stained cloth, the smell of burning flesh, hard liquor drunk around the flames. No one ever spoke, no one hugged. There was no time, only more work to be done.

Al’s funeral, though. This. It was beautiful. This was a room full of love.

On the walls were the fourteen stations of the cross. No one had said anything about how Al came to die, other than that it was too soon. No one laid blame. No one condemned Dean. But they didn’t need to, he would still bear his cross dutifully.

\--

When the service ended, people filed out of the church toward the cemetery. Dean guessed there must have been over a hundred people here. He was twenty-one years old. Dean stayed back, sitting alone in the church. He rested his hands on his knees and lowered his head onto the pew in front. He heard voices in the distance chanting a hymn outside, the trees rustling in the summer breeze. He took a deep breath in.

Music began to play, Amazing Grace, Dean recognised. The wail of the bagpipes the only lament of the ceremony. Dean pictured the coffin being lowered into the ground. Dirt shovelled on top of the wreath of white flowers, carnations. He let the image and the noise wash over him, eyes closed. The song finished.

The crowd began to disperse and when he opened his eyes again, there Leanne was, sitting next to him. She reached over and gripped his hand, looking straight ahead.

“It’s not your fault.” Her words took Dean by surprise. “I promise you it is not, Dean. That man should not have been there, he should not have done what he did, and certainly should not have shot my son.” Her voice became low and shaky, faltering on the last two words. “You didn’t kill him, Dean. That man killed him. His greed killed my son, and it will kill him, too. Don’t let it take you as well”. 

Leanne squeezed his hand tight, and Dean wanted to never let go.

\--

Some of the funeral attendees went to a place nearby called Teddy’s Bar. Dean didn’t think he could face any more people today, but he did feel like a drink. Leanne’s word’s still echoing in his head, he ordered a whiskey neat and downed it. He ordered another, just to hold in his hands. Standing in the middle of the room, he felt lost and unanchored. Leanne and Joan were heading back to Grantsville at eight tomorrow morning. 

It was just him and this bar until then.

Dean ducked out the side door into the alleyway. He pressed his back against the warm bricks, in contrast to the cool night air. He breathed in, breathed out; one continuous motion. His hands shook a little as he reached for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket and his fingers fumbled with the lighter. Dean took a long drag, savouring the bitterness of the tobacco and his grief. He exhaled, admiring the smoke circling upwards, dissipating, imagining he was going with it.

He thought back to all the times when he was a teenager hunting with John that he wished he were normal, with a real family and a home. He didn’t let himself think about how badly he still wanted those things. He stubbed the rest of the cigarette out under his shoe and headed back inside for another drink.

\--

He ordered his fifth whiskey, maybe it was his sixth. It didn’t matter, really, because it wouldn’t be his last. Dean eyed an attractive man at the other end of the bar and nodded to the bartender.  
“And another one for him, too.”

He threw the stranger a messy wink and the man toasts the drink in return. Dean turned his head back to face the liquor cabinet behind the bar and let the noise of the dive bar wash over him.  
Eventually, Dean stumbled into the bathrooms. He looked ahead at himself bleary eyed in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes and his suit was wrinkled from the back seat of the car. He shook his head at himself, just slight enough, just stony faced enough that he looked like his father. He wished he looked more like his mother.

Dean poured the rest of his drink down the drain and set the empty glass on the sink.

\--

Sitting alone at a booth was an old man wearing a kilt. Dean figure he must’ve been the one playing the bagpipes at the service. He stared at the man, a tug of familiarity at his chest. He must have kept staring for a while because the man was suddenly waving at Dean. ‘Oh, what the hell’, he mumbled and walked over.

“Hey. Uh, evening, man.”

“Evening, lad.” The man spoke in a thick Scottish accent.

“You were the one playing today, right? At the funeral?”

“That was me, aye. Graham on the pipes”

“Did you um, know Al, or do you just play uh, funerals and such?”

“The folks around here know me as the resident bagpiper. The whole county, in fact.” Graham said proudly. “But aye, I did know Alex, too. He was a student where I teach at Aberdeen High.”  
“Wait, there’s an Aberdeen High here?” The cogs started to turn in Dean’s head despite the alcohol. 

“Yes, son. It’s a large old building, hard to miss.” Graham chuckled, as if this should have been obvious to Dean. “Ye might’ve had a few too many lager’s tonight, but I won’t blame you.”

“You”, Dean pointed across the table at Graham, finally recalling. “You taught me how to play bagpipes, years ago. At Aberdeen High.”

“Och aye, I’m an old man now, Dean. I can’t go around remembering everyone who passes through my classroom”, Graham said with a wink. “So, tell me son, how’d they go. You ever manage to pick it up?”

Graham’s smile was so warm it burned Dean’s insides.

“Actually... no. I’m sorry Graham, I never played again. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” Dean's chest felt tight and he realised he’d started to cry. Graham reached his hand out to Deans.

“My dad was always over my shoulder. I never had my own room and we were on the road all the time. It was always about his business, his work. It wasn’t my work but it had to be, and I never got to play. I never got to play.” The words fell out of him and he didn’t know how he could feel so awful and so relieved at the same time.

“It’s alright, son. There’s still time.”

The words knocked the wind out of Dean.

“What?” He looked back at Graham.

“You know, I taught Alex’s mum, Joan. A good lass. She was troubled like you were, too.” Dean couldn’t picture Joan, twenty-something years younger, smoking under the bleachers in a leather jacket like he did. “She didn’t know what she was doing, she didn’t know how to be her own person. But she had time. She figured it out.”

“But Alex is dead now.” Dean began to raise his voice, “Her son is dead and it’s my fault, and I’m the one who took him there and they should-“

Graham cut him off by simply holding up his hand, palm facing out. “Aye Dean, and she will figure it out again. And so will you.”

The noise of the bar filled the silence at the table. Dean sighed, defeated and exhausted.

“I still have it.” Dean whispered.

“I’m glad, son, those chanters don’t come cheap,” Graham replied with a wink.

\--

On the drive back to Grantsville the next morning, all Dean could think about was his talk with Graham. It seemed silly to Dean, carrying around the chanter. He was never going to play it anyway, least not while John was in the next room. It stayed decidedly at the bottom of his bag for years, always thrown into the back of the impala. Unceremoniously. Unassuming.

After John died, he moved it from the bag to the back of the glove compartment, carefully wrapped up in t-shirt with a dog on it. Sammy knew that he played the bagpipes all those years ago, but he didn’t want him to know he actually still kept the small pipe with him. He had it at Lisa’s, under their bed. He carried it around with Cas’s coat, methodically re-folding the two items into a small parcel each time he and Sam changed cars. At the bunker it had its own drawer, right at the bottom of his desk.

Dean wanted to give it a space, an altar. He wanted to remind himself that he was his own person, and maybe in another life he stuck around long enough to learn something other than the family business. A life where he decided what he did.

He leaned his head against the window, and watched Maryland pass him by.

\--

Back at his motel room, he hugged Leanne and Joan goodbye. They thank him for what he did, and this time it didn’t sting so deeply.

Leanne and Joan left Grantsville in the end to be closer to their family, to Al. It would be a couple of years before they did, and more after that before Dean got around to visiting them. When he eventually did, Leanne made him a cup of coffee; strong with a dash of cinnamon.

\--

Dean returned to the bunker about a week after he left. Sam, the behemoth, encloses him in a hug, relieved to see his brother safe and seemingly sound. Garth had him worried for a couple days there. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, then Dean excused himself to unpack. This was his home, this was his life, and even if it wasn’t perfect, Dean would figure it out.

Later that night while in the study, Sam could have sworn there was a mosquito in his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading and indulging the bagpipes headcanon!!
> 
> ** the final line is a reference a previous work on this account (in another life, son)


End file.
